


Possibly We're Fine

by metisket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Sherlock is bored, bored bored bored, in a sidelong kind of way, john happens to enjoy his trust issues, john keeps hiding the gun, pre-season 2, sign of the four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metisket/pseuds/metisket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A John and Sherlock character study, in which Sherlock combats boredom by, among other things, trying to goad John into attacking him. John is sadly resistant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possibly We're Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Возможно, мы в порядке (Possibly We're Fine by metisket)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243957) by [e_nara (gentou_sanka)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentou_sanka/pseuds/e_nara)



A nose on its own, alone and unattached to a face, is a very awkward object. This is only one of the many interesting facts that life with Sherlock has brought to John's attention. One day he’ll have to decide on a way to properly express his gratitude for all this new knowledge, but at the moment, he’s too busy staring at the awkward nose in his refrigerator, nestled between a moldering can of beans and some wilting lettuce.

Unconnected, nose-related thoughts drift through his mind. Cyrano de Bergerac. Tycho Brahe. _Think of the mess when she caught a cold!_

“John!”

The nose has black—what? Chemical burns?—around the nostrils. As if, back when the nose was still attached to a respiratory system, the owner had snorted sulfuric acid or something equally ill-advised. Why would anyone do that? And did Molly really feel the need to point it out to Sherlock? She and John may have to have words.

“Tea, John!”

John wonders how Sherlock would react to someone abruptly flinging a nose at his face. Whether the momentary satisfaction would be worth the subsequent tantrum.

Probably not.

John sighs, closes the refrigerator door, and plugs the kettle in.

* * *

It’s been a month since the last remotely interesting case. A month of largely useless and ultimately deleted experiments. A _month_ , and Sherlock is bored, restless, unable to settle on anything, and flirting with an odd desire to peel off his own skin just to see what it’s like. Dangerous. If he lets himself focus on the skinning idea for any length of time, it’ll become a fixation, and then he’ll have to _do it_ , regardless of the mess and regrets afterward. (Not that there would be much ‘afterward,’ depending on how much skin he managed to remove. Blood loss, exposure of subdermal tissues, shock, death—an unpleasant death, but it’s possible he would be able to see his own living muscle before he lost consciousness, and that’s beginning to seem worth it.)

Something needs to happen. _Anything at all_ , because as it stands, the only acceptable, non-skin-peeling option left is to tear through the flat looking for new information, and there is no new information. It’s all old, analyzed, dissected, discarded. Sherlock fills 221B with interesting things, but a person can only study puzzles so many thousands of times before he hates the sight of them. The awful endless loop of the same tired thoughts about the same tired data spinning around and around and _around_ to no purpose, no gain, it’s enough to drive a person _mad_.

There are undoubtedly people dying all over London, and it seems the least they could do to arrange to die in interesting ways. Boring deaths are infuriatingly wasteful.

The problem as it stands: there are no cases, Sherlock is trapped in a room full of old data, and the knives are looking increasingly shiny and interesting. If the flat weren’t so very _clean_ and John weren’t so very _present_ , Sherlock could fix this problem chemically. But no, realistically, he couldn’t. Lestrade vowed no more cases if Sherlock didn’t stay clean, and Lestrade is a man of his word. Even when his word is inane. Damn him.

But there’s nothing else to _do_. It’s impossible to play in this mood, for instance. The violin is an unforgiving instrument, perfect when he’s happy or the right kind of angry, but useless when he feels like writhing and twisting and ripping himself out of his skin.

He sharpened the butcher knife just last week. It’s not a skinning knife, true, but it should still be possible to skin a mammal with—

Please _God_ , something new. Before he starts destroying inanimate objects or possibly himself out of sheer frustrated boredom. That would make John angry.

Ah. John. It’s nearly time for the latest John project. Of course.

Sherlock spins away from his experiment (rates of dissolution of various body parts; completed as predicted and _boring_ ), paces into the living room, and throws himself onto the couch, the better to observe John. Project aside, Sherlock’s sufficiently desperate for stimulation that staring fixedly at his flatmate and hoping for a violent reaction seems as good a plan as any. John won’t disappoint. John is rarely disappointing.

He’s currently pretending to work on his blog: typing a line, deleting said line. Repeat. Repeat. Talking about himself makes John hideously uncomfortable, which is why his blog is almost exclusively about Sherlock, Sarah, the police, sundry criminals and victims. His therapist doubtless did not approve of the John Watson-shaped hole in John Watson’s life story. This may be the real reason John fired her, rather than any question of competence.

Nor is John the only thing absent from his blog. Difficult facts in general tend to vanish without a trace. A drugs bust is no longer a drugs bust. Soo Lin Yao’s underworld connections are elided from her life. There is no Mycroft Holmes. The art of selective silence, just like a magic trick.

_Harry is short for Harriet_ is still one of the only pieces of personal information John has ever given Sherlock, and even that had to be coaxed from him. He hates explaining himself, but seems to find it comforting when Sherlock works him out unaided.

They love to contradict you: a useful rule of thumb, but true only where ‘they’ is not John-inclusive. John is content to allow people to believe almost anything of him, accurate or otherwise, but he’s happiest when they know nothing at all. He’ll shout, “I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” but never follow up with, “I’m John Watson.” Sherlock may not cater to what the masses consider typical behavior, but he knows what it looks like in tedious detail, and John is atypical. What _does_ go on in that funny little brain?

“ _What_ ,” John snaps: irritation, not curiosity. Sherlock doesn’t answer because too much silence bothers John far more than too much speech. (Atypical.) He doubts he’ll be able to incite an outright attack, but it’s worth a try. John is unpredictable.

And Sherlock is bored, bored, _bored_.

He can’t just order John to hit him. He tried that once, and John stormed out, leaving Sherlock alone and completely at the mercy of his sadistic subconscious. And then he had the unspeakable gall to be angry when he returned to find that Sherlock had set fire to the couch. (Inadequate fire detection equipment in the flat, surely John can see that was a valuable thing to learn?)

Sherlock presses his palms together to keep his hands still and away from sharp objects, and persists in staring at John, who is still trying, with limited success, to ignore him. Sherlock rarely has this much trouble annoying people. Generally speaking, they’re annoyed before he has a chance to try. This may call for extreme measures. Should he collect the fingers from the freezer and drop them at John’s feet?

Then again, John didn’t react to the nose, so there’s no reason to believe fingers would impress him. Is he becoming jaded? Pity.

“Someday,” John says dreamily, still typing and deleting over and over in a slightly unbalanced manner, “I’m going to kill you. You really will drive me to homicide. Lestrade will be completely unsurprised and Sergeant Donovan won’t blame me. You know that, don’t you?”

Sherlock drums his fingertips together impatiently. The relevant point is that John is absolutely not going to try to kill him today. He is far, far too calm; Sherlock is utterly failing to inspire murderous rage. How frustrating.

* * *

Sherlock ignores the death threat as firmly as he’s ignoring the tea John went to the trouble of making him. Not that that’s a surprise—he’s in dramatic crisis mode at the moment, and is clearly working himself up to something ridiculous. At least he hasn’t gotten his hands on the gun, this time. In fact, John should probably be counting his blessings—the violin hasn’t even made an appearance yet.

(It’s not that Sherlock can’t play well. It’s just that he only plays well between the hours of 3 and 5a.m., possibly as part of an ongoing study into the effects of sleep deprivation on subject John Watson’s sanity. The rest of the time, he makes a hideous racket that sounds like it ought to harm the strings.)

John could complain about being forced to make tea only to have it ignored, but he’d rather save his energy for the impending body-parts-near-the-food discussion. It’s not as if Sherlock is in a listening mood, anyway. He so rarely is.

A man who _genuinely_ doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him is a bit of a phenomenon. It lends a skewed charisma, that much indifference. John’s spent the last six months trying to pretend he doesn’t find it appealing, but he’s not fooling anyone, Sherlock least of all.

It’s obvious why it appeals. John spends almost as much time observing people as Sherlock does, but their goals are different. John observes as part of his lifelong mad attempt to avoid inadvertently hurting, offending, or frightening anyone. He’s careful; he has to be. He knows he’s all sharp edges.

No point being careful with Sherlock, though, because Sherlock always looks through you rather than at you unless he wants something specific. He’s not above being hurt, but he’s closer than anyone else John’s met. It takes quite a bit of pressure off.

Still, everything has advantages and disadvantages, and today is really showing off the downside. Sherlock is staring fixedly at John with eyes promising mayhem, and John just doesn’t want to know. Not until he’s finished this blog entry, at least. Is it too much to bloody ask that they have one quiet day a week?

In a month with no cases? Far too much to ask, yes.

John sighs, tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that Sarah would find the entire situation hilarious, and resumes his struggle to come up with something, anything, that he would feel comfortable telling the entire internet and also Harry.

* * *

Sherlock is turning over the question of which of them would survive, if John were to attack him with intent to kill. Quite possibly neither of them would. Now that…would be _interesting_. Similarly, John would be a pleasure to track down, if he were a murderer. Well, technically he is a murderer, but as it’s always for Sherlock’s benefit, it won’t become part of the game unless John needs help covering something up. Unlikely. Lestrade is unusually blind when it comes to John’s criminal moments—which is saying something.

Sherlock’s not sure what he would do if John were to start killing for fun, rather than for Sherlock. Cover for him? Possibly. Probably. In any case, it’s a meaningless consideration, because John isn’t at all the type.

If one takes Hickey’s Trauma-Control Model as accurate, John does meet a few preconditions for a non-sexually motivated serial killer. John’s parents raised an alcoholic daughter and a son who willfully joined the army to participate in what is openly acknowledged to be a hopeless, endless war. Both siblings erase themselves as much as possible, but they never turn to each other—maybe personality differences, maybe a divide and conquer tactic on the part of the parents (or guardians. At what age, exactly, was John orphaned? Not enough data). One unhappy child may be chance, but two unhappy children and probability tilts toward failures in parenting. Possibly an upbringing with some level of casual violence; certainly neglect. That would explain John’s mistrust, dubious sense of self-worth, and eternal outsider behavior.

So the trauma is there, but not the controlling fantasies. John actively dislikes having control over his life, in fact; obsessive ideation isn’t his preferred coping method. That’s more Sherlock’s line, but Sherlock lacks the childhood trauma, which is presumably why he’s fixated on skinning himself rather than someone else. Ah, the advantages of a pleasant upbringing.

Sherlock would be a nightmare of a serial killer, were he so inclined; meticulously organized and absolutely untraceable. He would be Jack the Ripper and the Stoneman and the Zodiac and _better_ , and people would write about him for centuries after his death. His complete lack of interest in the pursuit seems a waste of natural talent.

One wonders about Jim Moriarty’s origins. Like John, Moriarty kills serially without being a serial killer. Far too rational for that designation. Childhood trauma probably doesn’t factor as heavily with him as the fact of being born incomplete, born without the mental restrictions most humans have. It does happen—Sherlock was born missing something himself. Well, he’s never personally missed it, but other people seem to.

Other people, but not John, which is strange, because John isn’t missing anything. He has all the ties and worries and needless attachments typical of the species, and he kills only to protect. And yet.

John shot an elderly civilian because he felt that Sherlock deserved to live more than said civilian, and he is not sorry. He has never experienced a moment’s regret, in fact. It’s true that the cabbie wasn’t a very nice man, true that Sherlock was actively in danger. Still, it’s not standard behavior. It could be an effect of military service, except that John wouldn’t have gone through intensive combat training. Medical Officer, so: Professionally Qualified Officers Commissioning Course. Nothing referred to as ‘the Vicars and Tarts Course’ can be especially grueling, surely, and Medical Officers are only meant to fire weapons in _self_ -defense, as Sherlock understands it.

Quiet, unassuming John Watson. So goes the lie, and the most brilliant thing about it is that John believes it himself. This shows a lack of self-awareness so complete that John’s subconscious must have spent decades polishing it. Sherlock wavers between being horrified (really, John, unable to deduce basic facts about _yourself?_ ) and impressed (it’s a rare individual who can lie so successfully to anyone, let alone the entire world).

The truth is that John Watson is one of the ten most dangerous people Sherlock knows, and Sherlock’s made something of a hobby of collecting dangerous people. John is also possessed of a devastating capacity for loyalty (certainly enhanced by military emphasis on devotion to the group), and this loyalty has somehow settled on Sherlock.

Conclusion: John will _never_ attack Sherlock with genuine intent to kill. It’s obvious.

Sherlock sees no harm in trying, however.

* * *

John’s focus has strayed from the blog, and he’s currently thinking up small ways to annoy Sherlock without getting caught doing it deliberately. It’s a challenge. He could selectively destroy or contaminate a few of the nastier experiments, but Sherlock is always fanatically attentive to them—he’d instantly know that John was responsible. Same goes for hiding his violin or pouring acid over his coat (not while he’s wearing it; John’s not that hacked off yet).

Of course, John could do anything he liked to the food, but what would be the point? Sherlock would never notice because Sherlock couldn’t possibly care less, has likely deleted the entire concept of food from his _hard drive_. Ideally, there would be something of middling importance to sabotage, but Sherlock doesn’t have much in the way of middle ground. He either gives things his eerily complete attention or ignores them entirely.

He’s giving John his eerily complete attention right now, and has been for the past ten minutes.

Sherlock is fond of the couch. John wonders if he could get away with setting fire to it and pretending it was an accident. Except that, on further consideration, Sherlock’s already done that, and Mrs. Hudson would probably lose her sense of humor about it if they managed to destroy a second couch.

Right.

* * *

“So you’re bored, obviously,” says John, finally peering around his laptop. Hair unusually mussed; he’s been running his fingers through it: agitated. Dark circles under his eyes: lack of sleep. Faint tremor in the left hand. Yes, yes, yes, all pointing to the same thing, but why?

“Well done, John,” Sherlock murmurs. “I’ve always said you have a keen grasp of the obvious.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“True.”

John is wearing an expensive silk shirt that doesn’t suit him and isn’t like him; silk is cold. Some wintertime trauma left John with a hatred of cold approaching phobia. He’s still acclimated to a more extreme climate (Helmand Province? Possibly Kabul. No, definitely Helmand, likely remote outposts more often than not). He habitually underdresses for London winters and overdresses for London summers, but he never wears materials that _feel_ cold. Moreover, he cannot now and has never been able to afford silk. A gift, then, worn out of nostalgia. The shirt is at least two years old. Harriet-known-as-Harry would have been newly married to money at that time, and would have wanted the theoretical best for her brother. A spillover of her own temporary optimism.

John is unhappy, John is wearing a shirt that reminds him of Harry, John is wearing a shirt that makes him uncomfortable (one of his oblique self-punishments). Today must be some Harry-related anniversary (birthday, parent’s death), and John is refusing to call her.

“When you’re bored,” John continues, “you stare at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your brain, and Sherlock? It’s disturbing.”

“Would you like me to apologize?” Sherlock asks, interested.

“I’d settle for you stopping, actually,” John replies, attention drifting back to his screen. Not wrestling with the blog anymore; too much clicking, not enough typing. Near-frantic clicking, page to page to page. Settling on nothing, desperate for distraction. They have that much in common today.

John is bored, Sherlock is _murderously_ bored, and London is being tame and pleasant and dull dull _dull_ as if out of spite. Something Sherlock wouldn’t entirely put past this city.

His city, sweet and sly, lovely and deadly. Far more complex than it would have anyone believe. Seething with history, so much of it hidden that Sherlock, who’s lived in London with obsessive attention for more than half his life, still doesn’t know most of its secrets. A beautiful city that might kill a man with no warning and less remorse.

The resemblance between London and certain other things Sherlock is unreasonably attached to has occurred to him. On the one hand, this is troubling. On the other hand, it does make the hideous problem of boredom easier to address, when London won’t play. These days, there’s always John.

“Come to think of it, _I’m_ bored,” John announces, turning abruptly to Sherlock. “You should entertain me. It’s only fair.”

Yes, it _is_ only fair. It’s the reason John moved into the flat, and anyway, Sherlock had anticipated this request. It’s always a pleasure when he’s right about John; it’s not something he can count on. “We’re having lunch with several of your army friends,” Sherlock informs him. “They’re ‘on leave,’ apparently.” He makes sure John can hear the quotations around _on leave_. John finds it irritating when Sherlock treats military jargon as the nonsense fake language it clearly is.

And indeed, John slams his laptop shut in a fit of anger which he then struggles to suppress. Sherlock watches in some amusement: John Watson, attempting to pass for civilized. “We’re _what?_ ”

Sherlock smiles.

* * *

If he’d had longer than the duration of a cab ride from central London to Camden to think about it, John might have worked himself into a nervous panic at the prospect of seeing army friends. He might’ve even given the old psychosomatic limp another go, because the thing is, they’re still soldiers, while he, John, is nothing but a slightly damaged locum doctor. Plus, well, whatever he is to Sherlock. Nothing he would dare try to explain.

It’s lucky, then, that time is limited; he only has enough of it to manage towering rage toward Sherlock. Sherlock and his arrogance and his privilege and his _sending email from John’s account_ for the love of Christ.

The point of living at 221B is not actually so that Sherlock can use him as a lab rat, despite what Sherlock seems to believe. John should theoretically get something out of it as well.

Even from the depths of perfectly just rage, John knows that isn’t fair. He gets plenty from the arrangement, and Sherlock doesn’t have to do anything but _be Sherlock_ to provide it. Without any special effort, he creates a world in which John can go to the clinic in the morning, alleviate any number of small pains, possibly help save a life or two, and then shoot a serial killer after dinner.

_What have you done to justify your existence today, John Watson?_

_Quite a lot, thanks_.

That was the problem, after the war. Mycroft had a point there, sad though it is to admit it. John failed to cope with the transition from nonstop life-and-death decisions to… _nothing_. To taking up resources without giving anything back, to serving no purpose and adding nothing to the world. He wasn’t sure how other people could bear it. He still isn’t.

He had the unfortunate tendency, during that time, to go for long, limping walks and stare belligerently at people in their posh clothes, on their expensive phones, talking about paper-pushing or traffic or gardening as if any of it honestly mattered, and he’d wonder what lies they had to tell themselves to carry on like that. What kind of fantastic self-delusion could excuse that sort of life.

Follow that train of thought too far, and one day you find yourself keeping a loaded gun in your desk drawer with no clear idea of how you plan on using it.

Therapist didn’t like it. (The misanthropy, obviously, not the gun. John didn’t need a degree in psychology to know she would have liked the gun even less—and reported it, which was worse.) She tried to act non-judgmental, but her mouth said one thing and the tight grip on her pen said something else, and, looking back, that was when John started reading her notes upside down.

He wouldn’t dream of keeping a loaded gun in the same flat as Sherlock Holmes. In fact, he hides the gun and the bullets in two or sometimes three separate locations, as well as removing the firing pin and carrying it around with him. None of that stops Sherlock, but John likes to think it slows him down.

Living with Sherlock is, in many ways, better than the war. Same sense of purpose, but far less wholesale death. John might not have had much to do with that end of things, but he saw the fallout, and Sherlock’s insanity is a cleaner kind. Besides, there’s more glamour, following Sherlock. John’s not immune to the charms of glamour.

The damning truth is that Sherlock’s probably been a good influence—apart from anything else, John tends to be more forgiving in sheer reaction to Sherlock’s attitude. That said, John is not Sherlock’s punching bag, he’s not a toy, and he’s not an experiment. He doesn’t appreciate the way he’s currently being treated as all three.

* * *

Hacking John’s email account was embarrassingly easy, but also surprisingly interesting. Among other items of note, Sherlock found an email from one Philip Anand, and, being unfamiliar with the name, investigated it. An army friend, apparently. John was as reluctant to discuss army friends as he was to discuss anything apart from cases and Sherlock’s unsatisfactory cleaning habits, so Sherlock seized the opportunity. He promptly replied to the email (imitating John’s writing style wasn’t exactly a challenge for someone who lived with him and read his blog), then deleted the evidence. No sense in spoiling the surprise.

Sherlock-as-John and Anand made arrangements to meet at a tiny Italian restaurant on Camden High Street with ancient, stained tables and outstanding food. Camden Town: comfortably run down, feeling nearly but not quite foreign. A good place for those who feel nearly but not quite foreign, themselves.

It’s a typical March day, not raining at the moment, but there are low clouds and a perpetual grey dimness. The sort of weather that seems to muffle all sound, though Sherlock’s never been able to determine whether the effect is physical or psychological. It hardly matters. Either way, it inspires the general public to be quiet and oppressed and maddeningly law-abiding. (What Sherlock wouldn’t give for dry heat and wind—time-honored murder weather). It does, however, make it easier to focus on John, who currently has his head down and is deliberately refusing to notice anything.

Well, anything except the occasional beautiful woman; they never pass John Watson unstudied. He devotes as much attention to them as Sherlock does to particularly interesting crime scenes. It seems a horrible misuse of focus, but for some reason Sherlock’s been finding it amusing lately. It may even prove useful, should they ever have a case with an attractive murderess. If John would stop trying to sneak off with said women, there would be no problem at all.

This is where Sherlock’s understanding of the phenomenon of attraction falls apart. He can spot beauty as well as the next human, but the compulsion to _do_ something about it, the desire to own that beauty, or be part of it, or whatever it is that goes through people’s heads—it’s unfathomable. Sherlock’s observed the effects of it, he can even predict it, but he still doesn’t know _why_.

He’s aware that people sometimes find him beautiful, and his reaction ranges from vague irritation to deep discomfort. Whatever it is they think they want from him, they’re wrong. It would be best for everyone if they could see their way to leaving him alone.

“You hate people,” John hisses with an obscene rage that Sherlock finds cheering. “You don’t go meeting them unless you have some ulterior motive, so this is—what is this? What are you—are you collecting data? Is this a case? Is this an _experiment?_ ”

“You have such trust issues, John,” Sherlock chides absently, noting scraps of food, broken glass, and shreds of cloth in the cracks of the sidewalk—a concert at Koko last night, and one with a long line in advance, to judge from the scribbled lyrics still on the walls. Inane lyrics—love songs, of course. Annoying. “I’m surprised your therapist hasn’t mentioned it.”

“Yes, well, she did mention it every time I went to see her until your nightmare of a brother told me to fire her, which I did.” John sighs, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “And I don’t doubt you knew all of that already.”

* * *

The truth is, John had been looking for any excuse to fire his therapist. He’d never wanted one. The whole concept, frankly, strikes him as insane in itself, but ten sessions had been a condition of his pension, so no help for it.

“Trust issues” implies that he ought to trust more easily. He can’t see why; experience has proven that trusting easily leads to getting burned, and a little of that goes a long way, thanks very much.

Even supposing he has “trust issues” rather than a sensible degree of caution, he doesn’t understand how shoving him into a room with a perfect stranger who’s paid by the hour to pry into his personal life is going to help. Who is this Ella Thompson, anyway? Her friends? Family? Personal history? Political opinions? For all John knows, she hates the military and plans to express it by driving soldiers slowly insane. How, no really, _how_ are you meant to trust someone about whom you know absolutely nothing, and in what world would that be considered a good idea? It’s horrifying enough having to trust strange doctors with his physical health. Trusting them with his mind crosses the line into unbearable.

Therapy always seemed mad, and that was before he was encouraged to blab his life story to the entire world via the internet. And yes, obviously loads of people do that, but that doesn’t make it less stupid. John only feels comfortable writing about Sherlock because Sherlock’s already splashed his name and number all over cyberspace and it’s too late for him.

This is one of Sherlock’s dubious charms, though—the way he doesn’t care what people know. He shouts secrets in your face, his, yours, everyone’s. He doesn’t believe in boundaries, confident that he’s more of a danger to the world than the world will ever be to him. Very easy to trust a man like that.

John is another story, neither easy to know nor trust—or so he’s often been told by troubled relatives, friends, girlfriends. And as if that weren’t bad enough, there’s also the slight but uncontrollable contempt he feels for people who don’t really know him but claim to like him anyway. He can’t help it; that’s insulting.

Sherlock finds him perfectly easy to know, can see right through him, in fact. It’s a relief, even if it can be bloody annoying at times. The way they keep their rooms says it all: John’s is obsessively tidy, possessions tucked away, nothing on display. Quite a lot hidden, though. Meanwhile, everything Sherlock owns is obnoxiously out in the open where a person can’t help but trip over it. And still incomprehensible, for all that.

John is always trying to hide away Sherlock’s mess, and Sherlock is always dragging things out of John’s room to study and display. John suspects they’re each trying to do right by the other.

It may well end in murder.

* * *

Sherlock knows quite a bit about John’s therapist and her troubled relationship with John (and her troubled relationship with prescription painkillers, for that matter.) Her computer was as easy to hack as John’s email account. It’s negligence, really, technological backwardness to that extent. Still, she isn’t a _bad_ therapist, as these things go—she just wasn’t a good therapist for John. He was right to fire her, though Sherlock would cheerfully hamstring Mycroft for mentioning it; John belongs to _Sherlock_. This is the trouble with politicians in general and Mycroft in particular: they think they have the right to trample everywhere and micromanage everything for the alleged good of the people. It’s disgusting.

Sherlock amuses himself for a moment with the image of a hamstrung Mycroft crawling around on the floor, trying to get at the food.

“Are you in the habit of obeying my brother, John?”

“Stop that, you know I’m not. Christ, and I can’t believe I’m going to allow _you_ in a room with—Sherlock, _will_ you behave?” John waves this last away, despairing. “No, never mind, it’s too much to hope for. Will you…not make Philip cry, at least? Oh God, this is a nightmare.”

“I never mean to make anyone cry, John.”

“That is the filthiest lie you’ve told me all month, and you swore that greeny-purple cheese in the fridge was only a week old— _wait_.”

Sherlock pauses, hand outstretched toward the door of the agreed-upon restaurant, and smiles winningly through the glass at the table of three military postures. They smile back, or perhaps _smirk_ is the correct term. John hasn’t noticed them because John is preoccupied with hysterics.

“There will be no using romantic relationships against anyone,” he says sternly. “It’s a touchy subject, so don’t— _don’t_ —say anything about it.”

There are small, smeared fingerprints on the glass door around waist height—a child’s. The owner’s child? No, there would be more prints if the child were here regularly. A customer’s child, then. Dear God, is this a _family restaurant?_ Sherlock’s never seen children inside it before.

“You think I’d use romantic mishaps against your friends?” he asks John absently.

“I _know_ you’d use romantic mishaps against anyone. You think romance is a joke, and, fine, a lot of the time it is. But people take it seriously.”

Sherlock sneers. The very idea of allowing oneself to become vulnerable over these embarrassing biological needs is absurd. “Yes, because people are idiots.”

“Yeah, I know, but we’re born like that, so it’s not fair to hold it against us. No one has a say in it. Just like you don’t have a right to be proud of your genius, because it’s not as if you did a thing to earn it.”

As is so often the case with John, Sherlock finds himself smiling and isn’t quite sure why. “You’re proud of my genius,” he points out.

“I’m proud of what you _do_ with your genius. Most of the time. It’s not the same thing.” John gives Sherlock one last warning glare, then waves fatalistic permission. Sherlock opens the door.

Greetings, smiles, long-time-no-sees. The usual static of human interaction.

“Captain Philip Anand,” John says, indicating the relevant man, “also RAMC. Captain Mary Morstan, Royal Artillery. Major Thaddeus Sholto, cannon fodder.”

“Officer class cannon fodder,” Sholto insists. “Who would teach you kids how to die if we weren’t around?”

John laughs. Why? Inside joke, not enough data. “And this is my flatmate,” John goes on, thoughtlessly fond, which earns him considering looks he doesn’t seem to notice. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Everyone sits. Food is ordered. John orders food for Sherlock as if he believes Sherlock will take the time to eat it. (More considering looks from the rest of the table.) The conversation is predictably boring, but there is, at least, plenty of interest to observe.

Philip Anand, author of the email that permitted this interlude, is an Englishman of Afghan descent involved in a war in Afghanistan. Even in the RAMC, that choice carries quite a bit of risk. Anand, despite his mild appearance, must have a disregard for his own safety bordering on a death wish (familiar problem). Perhaps this explains why both of his marriages ended in divorce, the second quite recently. (Cheap jacket, smart shirt, tan line on the ring finger.) Manchester accent, much as he’s tried to smother it.

Beside Anand is Thaddeus Sholto, only recently openly gay (he glances at attractive men, quick and guilty, looks away, catches himself, belligerently glares at said men _because he can_ —may one day have a successful love life if he ever stops inadvertently frightening people), though John always knew (notices where Sholto’s eyes are, slightly amused, not at all uncomfortable, _it’s all fine_ ). Scars on Sholto’s forearms (defensive) and on his hands and knuckles (offensive). They’re too minor and repetitive to be war injuries, and they date from childhood to last week; a brawler, then. A talented one—his face is almost untouched. Surely this hobby wouldn’t go over well in the military—bad for discipline—so he must pick his fights quite carefully. A _calculating_ brawler. Interesting.

And finally, the openly smirking Mary Morstan. Fairly serious amateur cook, by the burn scars on her hands. Like Anand, party to a recent breakup, by the careful dress and slightly clashing jewelry. Military despite the fact that the military still isn’t an easy profession for a woman. Morstan also has a strong Irish accent (northern), and couldn’t be more flagrantly Catholic if she had the Pope’s face tattooed on her forehead. Straight from the Derry side of the Derry/Londonderry divide, most likely. Unlike Anand, she’s never made the smallest effort to mask her accent, never tried to blend in (not planning anything subversive, then), and yet she’s fighting a war for England. How wonderfully perverse.

John’s friends are misfits, outsiders, either barely passing for normal or not even trying. Sherlock is consistent with this pattern, which goes a long way toward explaining John’s continued presence on Baker Street. The chance for entertainment might have pulled him in, but it wouldn’t have held him. The fact that Sherlock is, of all improbable things, not unlike everyone else John chooses to spend time with…

That would hold him. (Trust issues, loyalty, belonging). It follows.

It’s been ten minutes, Sherlock knows what he came to learn, and he’s ready to leave. He considers how much domestic warfare he would likely suffer were he to drag John out of the restaurant right now. Answer: enough to make the flat unlivable. Not especially mysterious breakages, spills, and disappearances would abound. It will be at least another twenty minutes before the advantages of leaving outweigh the consequences.

Sherlock sighs and checks his phone, which unhelpfully informs him that no interesting crimes have been discovered since he last checked half an hour ago. The military contingent continue chattering amongst themselves, discussing things Sherlock, for the most part, has already deduced, but occasionally throwing out something new and moderately worthwhile.

He considers asking Morstan’s opinion of her father’s (favorite uncle’s?) suspected involvement with the IRA (nervous fiddling with the watch on her wrist accompanied by sidelong, repeated glances at the newspaper on the next table, an article on the Ronan Kerr murder uppermost. An older man’s watch, either given or pinched. Clearly associated with comfort), but decides John wouldn’t take well to that. Maddening, because Sherlock is _bored_ , and these people could be interesting if they chose, but they choose otherwise. Dull.

Dull until they start questioning John, that is.

“Here, hang on, we haven’t let Sherlock get a word in yet,” Sholto says, surprisingly jovial for a man with so many scars. “So you said you’re…flatmates?” This is addressed to John, but Sholto doesn’t seem to hold out much hope for an answer. It raises the question of why he bothered to ask. (Ah, yes. Brawler.)

“Right, flatmates,” John replies, quietly tense, as if this line of inquiry is suspect. And yet he forces himself to answer. John sets an undue importance on social graces; that is the alpha and omega of all of his problems in life.

“Rooming with a civilian.” Anand smiles. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

No response. Technically there was no question, after all. The silence becomes awkward.

“How’s life with our John, then, Sherlock?” Morstan breaks in, head tipped down, slight, flirtatious smile, a forward tilt to suggest intimacy.

Implication that John is difficult to live with, why? Nightmares, half-hidden rage, thrill-seeking behavior? No: true of many soldiers (particularly at this table), and this doesn’t have the sound of a problem common to all of them. John did something alarming, then. John did something alarming by the standards of soldiers in Afghanistan: impressive. Alarming but not horrifying, or there wouldn’t be smiles. Something they’d all wanted to do, but hadn’t dared.

Take John’s reaction to abduction by Mycroft and add it to his reaction to the fake drugs bust—John has no innate respect for authority; indeed, there are times when he struggles with the very concept. Place that attitude in the army. Fascinating. John must have been a passive-aggressive monster of a discipline problem when placed under a commanding officer he didn’t respect. Though he’s so very biddable when he does respect you. Hmm.

“Sherlock,” John says, elbowing him lightly.

Ah, yes. He was asked a question. An annoying question, which would lead to a cascade of increasingly annoying follow-on questions, none of which Sherlock has the patience to deal with. He decides to bend the ‘no romance’ rule, as this isn’t the romantic problem John had in mind when he made it. “I realize you’d like to use me to get over your failed relationship with that easily distracted experimental physicist, but it wouldn’t work for you, and I have no interest.”

Morstan’s mouth drops open and John covers his face with his hand. Sherlock is the only one who knows he’s doing it to hide a smile.

_Yes_ , Sherlock thinks in his direction. _Yes, exactly_.

From the opening clues, it’s obvious how the story is going to end. Why waste time with all the intervening pandering to propriety? If you know the answer to the question, _answer it_. Writing out every step of the proof is a waste.

“Has John been talking about my love life?” Morstan asks in a distinctly unfriendly tone. Sherlock wrinkles his nose at her disapprovingly. John sharing information? Ridiculous.

* * *

Mary’s getting a bit of the same glazed look Sergeant Donovan gets when she’s picturing a world without Sherlock in it and finding it beautiful. John carefully swallows down his laughter. Highly inappropriate. Likely to lead to death at the hands of an enraged Captain Morstan. “I didn’t know myself, Mary; I couldn’t have told him. He’s just—he picks up on things like that. He _is_ a detective.”

“You sound so proud.” Her eyes narrow.

“Please don’t kill me, I don’t have time to be dead right now.”

“About that.” John’s almost missed the Morstan Glare. “We were worried you’d self-destruct from the boredom, John, but you look surprisingly well. Upright. Not drinking yourself into an early grave. What are you up to, then?”

_I fight crime_ , John thinks. It used to be that meeting with old friends was mortifying because their lives were interesting and John’s was pointless. Now it’s awkward because his life is too interesting for casual conversation. Couldn’t there have been any stops in between? “Oh, I work at a surgery—locum work, nothing much. Keeping busy.”

“Haven’t I linked you his blog?” Philip asks. “He and Sherlock here run around London apprehending criminals; it’s right out of a comic book. Hellblazer without the Hell.”

Damn that blog. How do people _find_ these things? “Please don’t compare any part of my life to John Constantine’s.” It seems an incredibly unlucky thing to do. “And how did _you_ find my blog?”

“Think there’s been a little too much classified in your life, Captain Watson,” Sholto drawls, smirking. “It’s turned you strange; watch out for that. Can’t believe you of all people _have_ a blog. But I guess my gift is coming in handy?”

Sholto’s gift was the Sig. He shipped it to John in six different, oh, care packages in reverse (a number he claimed was ‘spiritually significant’), the barrel slipped in with some cooking gear he hopefully didn’t beat anyone up for. Apparently he felt strongly that the gun belonged to John and that it was a crime for the military to keep it from him. It apparently didn’t occur to him to worry about what John would do with it once he had it.

Sholto’s always had more faith in John than John has in himself.

Sherlock is studying the both of them now, far too interested. He’s going to take this conversation and run all the way to the moon with it. _Help_.

“So you’re a vigilante,” Mary says, folding her arms and settling back. “Sure, I can see that. After all, you’re Captain John Watson. ‘Oh no, people are bleeding. I know, I’ll make a hundred yard dash across open ground through heavy fire to get to them!’”

“I am not a vigilante, and that was only one time—”

“‘Never you mind!’” Philip cuts in. “‘Bullets bounce off Watsons!’”

“‘Grenade? No problem!’” Sholto chortles. “‘Only been a second or two—I’ll just dash over and chuck it back.’”

“ _You_ said chasing the cabbie was the most ridiculous thing you’d ever done,” Sherlock accuses him.

“It _was_ the most—look, in Afghanistan, that wasn’t ridiculous, it was my job. Saving people’s lives was my job. Chasing serial killers across London is—no one’s paying me to do it, it’s not my duty, it’s just. It’s mad, is what it is.”

“Hm. And how many medals do you have, doctor?” Sherlock asks, uncomfortably intent.

“A few,” John answers brusquely. “There’s no need to make a fuss. They practically hand them out in the mess line.”

Synchronized eyerolling around the table. John scowls. “Don’t act as if I’m the only one here who’s done reckless things. Sherlock, _midnight at the pool_ sound familiar? Anand, the morphine disaster. Sholto, I seem to remember an incident with a tank that was not in fact ours. And you, Morstan.”

She sighs, the picture of maligned genius. Very Sherlock, that. “You’re not starting in on that AK-47 again, are you?”

“That stolen, ancient, may-actually-have-been-built-in-’47 AK-47?” John hisses. “Yes. Yes, I am starting in on that again. What were you thinking?”

“Well, mainly that it was _there_.”

“That is the most unbelievable—”

“Yeah, that’s enough nagging for a lifetime, Doctor John,” Sholto cuts in. “Poor Mary—even I’m sick of hearing about it. It’s not fair anyway, is it? Whole point is that you’re no better.”

“You’re the Batman of London,” Philip agrees, putting a comforting hand on Mary’s back. Not as smooth a move as he’d like it to be. John sees Sherlock noting it, but, blessedly, he can also tell that Sherlock’s bored by it. Maybe romance isn’t interesting unless there’s infidelity or incest (or potential homicide) going on.

In the event, John doesn’t think there’s much of anything going on. Which is good, because he’s not sure he’d approve if there were. He likes Philip, he does, but he likes Mary more, and this would be marriage number three for Philip. At some point, a man should have the grace to admit defeat.

“Find his comic books,” John tells Sholto, “and burn them. And now you’ve reminded me, Philip, my blog—”

“Murray linked me,” Philip offers reluctantly.

Bill Murray. He’s a good man. He saved John’s life once. John is absolutely not allowed to shoot him for having a big mouth. “Right. Why isn’t he here today, speaking of?”

“He’s on holiday in France at the moment,” Sherlock declares with his best dismissive-five-year-old smirk. “And I wouldn’t have invited him in any case.”

“What?” Philip asks blankly. “But I sent the email to—”

“Okay, so you wouldn’t have invited Bill,” John cuts in before Philip gets any further. They all know how John guards his privacy, and he doesn’t want them leaping to any wild conclusions based on the fact that he allows Sherlock to trample all over it. If they ask questions, he’ll have to think about the answers, and he’d like to avoid that. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugs and turns his attention to his phone. “Boring. Obvious.”

Of course.

* * *

John is heaving sighs and acting oppressed, for some reason. He asked the question, surely he wanted an honest answer.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is in a reasonably good mood—this lunch experiment has been a great success. Several lingering John questions have been neatly cleared up now that they have a proper context. The company at this table amounts to John Watson’s natural habitat, and it’s very illuminating.

The story of these four is clearly written in their low ranks relative to their high medal counts. Outstanding at their jobs, they’d risk life and limb to save a fellow soldier in a heartbeat. Then likely get drunk afterward and take an armored personnel carrier for a spin through a potential minefield. They have a charming lack of perspective on what constitutes acceptable risk.

Sherlock imagines their commanding officers must often have looked very like Lestrade does when Sherlock’s solved a case and then made a PC cry.

“Yeah, okay,” Anand says. “I see why Watson likes you.”

Sherlock tips his head, curious how inaccurate this assessment will be. After all, he’s just worked out the answer himself. “Do you?”

“Sure,” Sholto chimes in, grinning. “You’re a disaster. He always did like disasters.”

Not inaccurate, then, just incomplete. It’s true that disaster makes John smile.

“Thanks for that.” John is embarrassed, as he is socially obligated to be. “And don’t call my flatmate a disaster.” Defending the flatmate; no surprise. John has shown himself bafflingly willing to defend the flatmate with his very life.

Sholto throws up his hands, laughing. “Hey, didn’t mean anything by it. I know how you are about your people.” _Your people?_ “We’re all of us disasters, hey? He seems a decent sort.”

“Funnily enough, he’s not universally loved,” John explains, expression softening. “Some of the police take exception to the way he calls them idiots and gloats about his genius and generally behaves like a giant prat at every opportunity.”

Everyone laughs except Sherlock, who grimaces because John has reminded him that Anderson exists. Revenge?

* * *

John has taken to reminiscing about cases during which Anderson was especially annoying, mentioning Donovan and adultery in quick succession, or just _implying Anderson_ whenever Sherlock irritates him—it’s his version of Sherlock’s trick of pickpocketing Lestrade. It’s partly revenge. Mostly, though, he does it because of the hilarious face Sherlock makes every time. Enough to cheer anybody up.

Besides, using Sherlock’s brilliant mind as a weapon against him is both surprisingly easy and incredibly fun. The beauty of it is that it works even when Sherlock knows full well what John’s up to.

* * *

Text from Lestrade. Sherlock can study John anytime, but murder is immediate. Body by the Thames, once again not a drowning. (Is this a new trend?) Found with a rope around the neck, no signs of strangling. Fingernails all torn out. Torture? Interrogation? Ritual? (Moriarty?)

New data. A puzzle. A focus.

_Brilliant_.

“John! Case!”

Sherlock dashes out the door (the child’s fingerprints are more obvious from this angle), leaving John to throw down money, mutter apologies, waste time on social chains. Strange man. Anand is smiling, Sholto is leering, and Morstan is laughing so hard breathing appears to be a problem, so presumably they’ve all had a pleasant enough lunch. No need to _apologize_.

“I have no idea why you did any of that,” John complains, running to catch up as Sherlock waves imperiously for a cab. “And I can’t take you anywhere.” He’s struggling to push his grin into the shape of a scowl. Failing.

“No need.” _I’ll take you everywhere_. “Am I correct in thinking you drove your first commanding officer to drink?”

John starts laughing helplessly. He would say _despite himself_ , but Sherlock knows better.

* * *

Most people say war is a terrible thing. Civilians, soldiers, it makes no difference—it’s what Sarah would say, what Philip and Harry and Mike Stamford and Bill Murray would say. _Terrible_ , they’d murmur, sad, horrified, afraid.

Mycroft would say war is necessary, and there are plenty like him. Politicians, usually, far from the front line. Soldiers, occasionally.

If you asked Sherlock about war, he would say, “What else is there?” because even when there isn’t an official war on, he always manages to find one.

John sees what they’re getting at, all of them, but he’s (probably unsurprisingly) with Sherlock on this one. He just doesn’t—well, the point is, when you look at human history, there’s always war, isn’t there? Always. So what John Watson says is, war is inevitable. Good, bad, or indifferent, it doesn’t matter: it’s inevitable.

And if it’s going to happen anyway, John wants to be there when it does.

**Author's Note:**

> First posted October 2011.


End file.
